Black Tie Event
by TheLocket
Summary: When Lucius's friend returns to the Ministry, Arthur has trouble at work, Harry, Ron, and Hermione have a plan, and Draco attends a Black Tie Event.
1. Chapter 1

In the precious few weeks before school started once more, Harry, Ron, and Hermione whittled their days away at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Although he had originally thought that living within the residence of the Order of the Phoenix would have been interesting and exciting, Harry found that, other than the more-adventurous cleaning tasks, life was rather static. As the three soon-to-be fifth years were not allowed within the secretive meetings, it was rather as though the Black Manor was just another house, for all that Harry, Ron, and Hermione heard of it.

However, one evening, as the other Weasleys and assorted members of the Order of the Phoenix joined Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the table for dinner, Arthur started what originally seemed normal conversation. He had been prompted by his wife, Molly, when she asked what news had from his job at the Ministry.

"Well," he said, sighing as he served himself a second helping of food, "Fudge just informed us today that he's hired a new supervisor for finances. I expect my department will receive a few more cuts of funds." There were a few glances of worry exchanged throughout the table, mainly from those within the Weasley family.

"But," Hermione responded sensibly, "you can't assume that they'll do that, can you?"

"In this case, Hermione," Lupin responded, "I think you can." Arthur nodded.

"It's Philip Reeds," Arthur told Hermione, and the others at the table who hadn't already heard. "He's a friend of Lucius Malfoy, and they're definitely of the same mind set. Both Pureblooded families, and both with more money than they need."

"It may interest you to know, Hermione," interjected Kingsley Shaklebolt, who worked at the Ministry as well, "that he has a daughter your age. She'll be joining you at school sometime this year."

"I expect she'll be buddies with Pansy," muttered Ron into Harry's ear, and they both grimaced, sharing the dislike of the idea of another girl as obnoxious and loud. Hermione, however, was silent.

"I know I've heard that name somewhere," she muttered.

"You may have," Charlie said from the other end of the table. "She was at Hogwarts last year, with her classmates from Beauxbaton."

"Now I remember," Hermione replied. After a question glance from Harry, she continued. "She sat next to Professor Snape at the Yule Ball. I remember overhearing him introduce her to Malfoy."

"You remember everything!" scoffed Ron quietly. Hermione gave him a disapproving glare and would have certainly launched into another tirade on how he never listened if Harry hadn't interrupted, "Did he seem interested?"

"Who?" asked Hermione.

"Malfoy," replied Harry. At this Hermione shrugged.

"Why would you care?" asked Ron. Hermione, however, had a scheming look in her eye.

"What were you thinking?" she asked Harry.

---

The Malfoy Manor was one that you could get lost in. Each room led to a stuffy corridor, an architect's dream, an interior designer's paradise. The furniture was expensive and of a late medieval period, with ornately carved chairs and chests with gilded locks. While many children would enjoy to spend their summers at this estate, Draco Malfoy just found it boring.

Having lived at the manor for over fifteen years now, he found it dull. The largeness of the house was, at first, wonderful. As a young boy he had loved the way that he could run off for hours on end and his nanny couldn't find him. Now, he found that it was too easy to become separated from his parents. His mother, Narcissa, spent her hours drifting aimlessly on the second floor. His father, Lucius, preferred the downstairs. More often than not, Draco could find him in a study on the ground floor, an expensive Cuban cigar in one hand and a cue for billiards in the other. In those summer weeks, Draco had spent the hours silently, perfecting his skill at opening the wooden doors without causing their hinges to creak. The dinner hours were the only ones they spent together. It was the same: always at the long table in the dining room. The only drinks served were wine, a thick, dark elfish wine that made Draco uncomfortable. The adults sipped it nonchalantly, but Draco found that the exquisite taste grew dull from overuse.

While other children, when bored, could turn on a television or use such other muggle devices, there was not a plug in the Malfoy Manor, or even electricity. At night, light came from smokeless torches that lit whenever anyone walked past, and amusement had to be sought out in more creative forms that a flipping of a switch, pressing of a button, or clicking of a mouse.

A clock chimed five o'clock, but Draco didn't move. Dinner was always early, but he didn't feel much like going downstairs quite yet, and was certainly in no hurry for another long, dull conversation. His black cloak was strewn across his bed. He sat at his desk, staring emptily out the tall window. Its curtains were thick, dark, red velvet. Below, on the first floor, a bell chimed. Draco heard it, and sighed. He got up, deliberately slowly, and walked over to the mirror. Like all things in his house, it was old. The edges were dull with too many cleanings, but the gilded frame still bore precious stones that glittered in the torchlight. He began to put on his tie, a black silk one, finely made and extremely expensive. While others would enjoy the smoothness of the silk, it was all trite to Draco. His hands were swift and sure as he knotted the tie, placed the collar of his white shirt over it, and surveyed his reflection. His eyes, steely gray and intense, stared back at him. He even looked bored. He parted his hair, thought about it a moment, and brushed it with his fingers so that it brushed his eyes. He liked the way it looked, liked the way his eyes glittered beneath his shiny blonde hair. It was a waterfall of golden light, the tips brushing his eyelashes. He buttoned his sleeves, straightened his tie, and went down to dinner.

---

"Would that work?" asked Ron dubiously. Kingsley and Lupin exchanged a glance. At one end of the table, Molly looked uncomfortable.

"Something wrong?" asked Mr. Weasley at her fidgeting. She smiled sort of forcedly, as though admitting to a lie.

"It doesn't seem right, is all," she replied. More glances, more silent exchanges.

"He's only a boy," she continued, her voice rising in pitch. Sirius was grinning at one end.

"I remember when I was his age," he told Mrs. Weasley. "I wasn't that innocent. I think it's perfectly acceptable."

"I mean," Harry began, only to be interrupted by Mrs. Weasley.

"That's enough," she said firmly. "Off to bed. And no more talk of this."

At her scolding, Harry looked at Lupin. The plan had sounded good; even Hermione had agreed, and she was more cautious than Harry and Ron put together. However, looking at this previous Dark Art's teacher, Harry was surprised to see him nod. He turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody, who winked and nodded to the door. This indication of him leaving, while confusing, presented an enigma that he was sure Hermione could figure out.

Ron wasn't as willing to leave, but at Harry and Hermione's solidity, he grabbed a last cookie and followed them out. Ginny followed.

As soon as the door was closed, Hermione turned to Harry.

"I–" began Harry, but Hermione quickly shushed him. The four of them ran up the stairs as quickly as they could, and once at the landing, Hermione removed a cleverly-concealed Extendable Ear from her pocket.

". . .and I will not have it!" Mrs. Weasley was saying.

"Molly, understand, if it could help the Order. . ." Arthur was trying to wheedle.

"You see," Hermione told Harry, "the others agree. They're going to try and convince her."

"Good luck," Ron muttered. "My mum doesn't often change her mind."

". . .only the age of my Ron!" Mrs. Weasley continued, and those inside the room could see in her fiery glare a soft touch of love that only a mother could have. The dynamic around the table was intense; it was as though the air was thick with silence, all that those seated around the table weren't saying. They were carefully going to convince the one person who opposed their brilliant plan.

---

The table at the Malfoy Manor stretched across ten twelve-foot high windows. The heavy emerald curtains were thick with dust and their thick golden tassels hung limp in the stagnant air. And the room was heavy with silence. Draco served himself another spoonful of soup, before his mother levitated it away from him. He delicately sipped the hot liquid, his silence not out of politeness but rather fear of breaking the fragile quiet. His father dropped his spoon with a loud clatter, forcing Draco to avert his attention from his soup to Lucius.

"I saw Philip today at the office," he told his wife. His tone was surprisingly quiet, as though he was accustomed to sitting at such a long table, accustomed to the tall, dusty hall, accustomed to the emptiness of the high ceiling and nineteen empty chairs.

Looking at his mother seated to the head of the table to his right, Draco caught her carefully uninterested glance to his father.

"And how are the Reeds?" she inquired, her melodic voice patient and soft.

"Well," replied Lucius. Draco returned his eyes to his soup, which was now getting cold. Just like his father to not say what he meant, especially with him around.

"Draco, didn't you say you met his daughter, Marie?" asked his mother, her deep blue eyes focused upon not her son but her soup. He glanced at her, before clearing his throat and responding in what he hoped was the uninterested tone that both his parents had perfected.

"Yes, she came from Beauxbaton for the Triwizard Tournament. Professor Snape introduced us at the Yule Ball." Draco glanced at his father, as if hoping that he had said the proper thing. He knew from their averted glances that he had said too much, told them more than they had asked. Speak when spoken to was a rule for him in his own house with his parents, as was telling them what they asked, a need-to-know basis that they were accustomed to when dealing with the Dark Arts.

"Marie Reeds is you age, isn't she?" It was Lucius who asked this, and it threw Draco off.

"Y-yes," he stammered, his eyes flicking from his mother, who refused to meet his gaze as though indifferent, to his father, who was now lifting his wineglass and watching the thick red liquid as the light filtered through it.

"Only fifteen," he mused to himself, as he took a sip.

---

"You can't say that!" cried Mrs. Weasley. "He's only fifteen!"

"When I was fifteen," Sirius said, "I was just as mature as I am today."

"That's saying something!" replied Mrs. Weasley hotly. There was a silence.

"Molly," Lupin began carefully, trying to placate her, "there would be no risk of harm coming to him. This is strictly informational. It wouldn't be dangerous at all."

Molly glanced around, looking for someone who agreed with her.

"Do you really all think we should do this?" she asked them.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were seated in the boys' bedroom. Ron was finishing the large, chocolate-chip and walnut cookie he had taken from the table, as Hermione fidgeted.

"Will this really work?" asked Harry finally. It had been his idea, but seeing it so quickly thrown into action made him nervous. Suppose it didn't? Would he be blamed?

"I think it will," Hermione replied. "If Tonks is willing. . ."

"Of course I'll do it," Tonks told Mrs. Weasley. "Don't be silly. It'd be fun."

"Fun?" echoed Molly. "But if it works. . ."

". . .if it works," Hermione continued, "then the Order will have enough information. This could really work to our advantage. But if it doesn't. . ."

"If doesn't work? If you're caught?" Mrs. Weasley asked incredulously. Tonks shrugged, as though uncaring.

"What does it matter?" she replied. Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"How well do you know Mr. Reeds, Arthur?" she asked.

"Philip and I first met when I was in France." Lucius spoke as though to himself. "He's a fine man." There was a pause as the three of them ate their dinner.

"Marie is Pureblooded," added Narcissa, carefully cutting herself some filleted fish. She met Draco's eyes momentarily. "You liked her?" she asked, turning her attention once more to her food.

"Yes."

"That's nice." Narcissa poured herself some more wine and sipped it delicately. The effect of the crystal and the blood-red liquid was entrancing.

---

Ron looked mournfully at his empty hands and dusted off the last few crumbs.

"I want another cookie." The rich chocolate taste was thick in his mouth.

"Ron, this is serious!" chided Hermione.

"Suppose this could work," Mrs. Weasley allowed. Lupin smiled.

"Well, Molly," Mad-Eye said, "the possibilities would be. . ."

"Yes, excellent," agreed Mr. Malfoy, carefully buttering his slice of bread.

"I suppose you two will be very good friends," Narcissa added, pouring Draco another glassful of wine. His glance of distaste was ignored.

"So this is final?" Kingsley asked. "The timing will be very important."

". . .and we'll have to play along, of course," Hermione added.

"Sounds like fun." Ginny had joined them.

"She is rather pretty." Draco kept his voice carefully devoid of any emotion. Still, his mother looked up. _I should have just kept quiet_, he thought, forcing himself to take another sip of the thick red wine. But somehow he felt a warmth inside for having said something. Something that made him sound like he knew what was going on and wasn't as oblivious as they thought he was. He hated that tone of his mother's. Friends, indeed! He knew what they were planning for the two of them.

"It's a good plan," Charlie added.

"So it's settled?" asked Sirius eagerly. Molly glared at him

"What about Snape?" asked Mad-Eye.

"I hope they don't tell him," Ron muttered.

"It was kind of him to introduce you two. She will be in Slytherin, I'm sure." Blase, bland of any emotion. It was as though he wasn't human, without his eyes even looking at the son he spoke to.

"I suppose we won't."

"It'd be better that way," agreed Lupin. Sirius laughed.

"I'd love to see his face when he figures out. Snivellus, tricked, finally."

"I hope you make her comfortable, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy murmured.

"Yes, mother."

"And Malfoy. . ." Harry grinned at the edge to Ron's voice. Hermione looked down at her right hand, as though remembering the force it had inflicted.

". . .no one will have any idea of it coming!" Ginny was triumphant as she recounted the story to the twins.

"I can't believe Harry–" Tonks shook her head in wonder.

"I suppose some of us rubbed off on him, eh?" asked George of his twin.

Crookshanks padded silently into the bedroom and leapt onto Hermione's lap. She stroked him, while saying, "Do you think he'll ever know?"

"Of course not," Narcissa agreed with her husband. "I wouldn't worry about him." Standing silently at the door to the dining room, Draco was insulted to hear his father snort at his mother's confidence in him and felt an angry blush rise in his cheeks.

It was dizzying how fast everything was going.

Draco walked up the stairs slowly, dreading the quiet hours to come.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place was a flurry of movement downstairs. The adults had lit the lights and were comfortably seated. Mrs. Weasley, helpful for once, had conjured coffee from the kitchen and then enchanted the coffee pot to fill each member's mug.

"I suppose there's nothing more to do tonight," Harry agreed with Hermione reluctantly.

_Absolutely nothing_, thought Draco. _I'll go bored out of my mind before school starts again._ He cursed himself silently for his lack of creativity.

"What could we do?" asked Fred. Ginny shrugged.

"I suppose nothing," she replied. "But don't give us away."

"Wouldn't dream of it," grinned George.

"We are rather good, dear sister," began Fred.

" – at keeping secrets," finished George, winking.

Lucius drained the last drop of red wine from the crystal goblet.

"I suppose I'll go into the Ministry tomorrow," he told his wife. She flicked her wand; the table cleared. She didn't respond.

The flickering fire illuminated face after face. Sirius, his drawn face alight with childlike excitement, Tonks, her grin cunning and fox-like, Mad-Eye Moody, a unfamiliar smile making the corners of his lips turn upward, and Molly, for once content with the planning of the Order.

Draco turned off the light by his bed with a flick of his wand and rolled over onto his back. Staring up into the darkness, he wished that something, anything, would happen. What happened to the excitement of being a wizard? If only he could play Quiddich. . .the pillow was too hard, the silken sheets too suffocating. . .if only he could fall asleep. . .

Harry and Ron, lying in their separate beds, sighed and fell asleep with identical smiles on their face. A day well spent.

Lucius walked into his bedroom, holding the cigar expertly in his left hand, and looked over at the sleeping form of his wife and sighed. By habit, he rubbed the inside of his left arm guiltily, winced, and went to get washed up.

Draco was still staring up at the dark canopy of his bed when sleep finally claimed his thoughts and his grey eyes that had glinted in the dark like stars finally closed as his mind, which had been whirring with feelings of inadequacy and helplessness, found peace in a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter 2! YAY! Okay, please R&R, any comments would be very helpful!

---

For Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry was a place where he was a celebrity of sorts. As one of the thirteen governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and as a generous benefactor of the Ministry itself, Lucius found that things tended to go his way. When waiting for an elevator to the third floor to see a colleague, it was not uncommon for others to step aside and allow him to go first, even if it meant they had to wait longer. When Apparating into the Ministry, his entrance was always noted by the receptionist, who would graciously welcome him. Walking in the hall, wizards would nod their heads to acknowledge him.

While others would find this strange and flattering, to Lucius Malfoy it was the only proper way of things. After all, he was the legal possessor of the extensive Malfoy Fortune, Pureblooded, and an extremely powerful man whose money had more influence in affairs at the Ministry than several votes in the Wizengamot. And as far as Lucius Malfoy was concerned, the Malfoy family was authoritative and deserving of this power; that's the way things had been for generations, and that's the way it would be if he had anything to say about it.

When Draco woke up, it was to an empty house. His father, he had heard, was at the Ministry sorting out affairs; his mother told him she was going shopping and was going to pick him up later that day. That, while promising to be an event to take up the time, seemed uninteresting and boring, two words that could too perfectly describe his summer.

He had been pacing aimlessly since waking, sipping a glass of tea as he walked. Upon reaching a pair of sliding doors he stopped, staring at the gilded and aged doors with slight apprehension. However, after a moment he pushed them open and walked inside.

His father's study had always been a mystery. Bookshelves built into the walls stretched high above his head and around him, and the two windows on the far side of the room sent thin beams of light into the study that seemed to coalesce with the dusty air to form columns of gold. His father's desk, a deep wood-and-gilded affair, was scattered with piles of interesting-looking documents, quills, books, and assorted shiny things, creating an interesting look as though a magpie and a lawyer had come to share living spaces. Curiosity drew the young Malfoy to it, and his fingers brushed the tomes and papers littered there. An encyclopedia, labeled as such, was closed and in the rightmost upper corner of the desk; it seemed to be sprouting several tasseled bookmarks. That he didn't touch. However, the center of the desk was littered with thick pieces of parchment. If fifteen years of living with his parents had taught him only one thing, it was perfection, the sort of careful perfection one needs to sneak around and spy, the sort of perfection of opening doors without a sound, the perfection of being unnoticed and invisible.

Slowly, Draco shifted the papers and picked up the one that had originally drew his attention. It was a family tree. That alone made him want to put it down, until he saw the names. His eyes traced quickly down the tree, coming to rest on the most recently penned name, Marie, beneath Philip and Cynthia Reeds. His pointer finger came to rest on her name. After a moment of hesitation, he replaced the parchment exactly as it had been before and moved on. On the center of the desk another piece of parchment caught his eye, this time because he saw his name. Picking it up, he saw that it was an envelope addressed to him and his father, the return address showed it was from Cynthia Reeds, followed by, in the same cursive, a city in France. The envelope, however, was still sealed, and he decided it would be risky to open it and try and seal it with magic; his father was sure to know somehow. Draco could have sworn that man was omniscient, especially when it came to pointing out his son's mistakes and sloppiness.

Draco continued to look around his father's study, lifting strange potions from their spots between books on the bookshelves and replacing them perfectly over their dust rings, careful to enchant the glass so as to remove any trace of his own presence; there was some taboo of him being in his father's study, something he couldn't quite place, and it was that discomfort that made him extra-cautious despite his boredom-induced curiosity.

Occasionally, a book would interested him and he would carefully remove it, freezing the other books in their place with a careful, "_immobulus"_ . Certain books were ones that Potter and his friends would assume Draco would find interesting: an old tome of curses that Hermione would have known as a banned book, a hexes and jinxes book that had to be cursed soundly to be opened, and an ancient book entitled "Glory of the Gods: Pure of Blood and Descended from Power". The latter contained a single bookmark, and Draco opened the page to a vertical family tree. Upon closer inspection, Draco was astonished to see that the faded lines and names were labeled by the author "The Malfoy Family Tree". A few pages later he came to "The Black Family Tree" and "The Lestrange Family Tree". He could see that his father had made edits to the text; his own name had been added at the base of the Malfoy Family Tree, and a few pages were missing. It was apparent that the book was no longer accurate; some family trees that remained depicted families who had married into other, non-Pureblooded families, other family trees showed families that no longer existed.

After a while, Draco replaced this book on the shelf and turned to look at the room. Its mystery was gone. It was just a room, a room that was a representation of his father's own egotism and self-adulation. A room that worshiped the Pureblooded Wizard and Death Eater alike. It was a room that depicted what Lucius had hoped his son would be. And that thought was what made Draco tighten his lips and feel a bitter taste in his mouth, and finally turn and leave the room without leaving a single indication of his presence. On a second though, he doubled back, marched straight towards his father's desk and grabbed the envelope. It was, after all, addressed to him as well. But that wasn't why he took it; it was the action of thievery, and the hope that his father would observe its absence, despite the voice in the back of his head that realistically noted that his father would never notice him.

---

Everyone at the table for breakfast that morning at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, was surprised at the silence. It was an anticipating silence, as the people glanced around the table. The plan was to go into action that day, if only in the form of Mr. Weasley doing a little snooping around at the Ministry. Hopefully, if they didn't run into any snags, the plan could be thrown into gear upon the start of school. Harry was still upset that he couldn't join Mr. Weasley at the Ministry, but his desire to help with the Order was combating his fear of going to the Ministry, which would only remind him of his impending trial. This fact kept him from arguing with Mrs. Weasley, and the absence of that arguing made the silence that morning a confusing combination of strange, speculative, and comforting feelings.

When a clock somewhere chimed 8 o'clock cuing Mrs. Black's portrait to start screeching once more, the silence was broken and Mr. Weasley stood up from his place at the head of the table.

"Off to work," he tried to say cheerfully, which came out sounding more like a mumble. He walked to the other end of the table, where Mrs. Weasley stood, frozen halfway into serving Ron a second serving of pancakes, and kissed her on the cheek as a farewell. Without another word he left the room, crossed through the foyer, and walked out the front door. The silence was so extreme that they could hear the _crack!_ as he Disapparated to the Ministry through the heavy wooden door.

His sudden exit caused a momentary stop of all activity at the table, but once he was gone, Mrs. Weasley sighed and continued serving the pancakes, the only difference being perhaps her sudden fervor.

"Pancakes, Harry?" she asked, noisily clanging the plate and the serving fork as she trundled over to him.

"Sure, thanks," he muttered, looking at Ron and Hermione with a confused air. Hermione smiled sort of pityingly and nodded. Mrs. Weasley proceeded to fill his plate with another three pancakes before turning to the others at the table. Her nervousness continued through the entire meal; when she tired to levitate the water pitcher over to one of the twins, she accidentally sent it skidding all the way to the end of the table. Luckily, Bill was able to stop it from spilling, but it was obvious that Mrs. Weasley was not comfortable with the thought of her husband doing spy work at the Ministry. It wasn't until after they had finished when Lupin took her into the kitchen.

"Molly, look," Lupin told her, as the three fifth years and assorted Weasleys crowded around the Extendable Ear.

"Arthur is fully capable of working for the Order." There was silence.

"I know," they heard Mrs. Weasley reply. "But–"

"And so is Tonks, and myself, and Mad-Eye, and all the others," Lupin interjected before Mrs. Weasley could express her doubt.

"There is nothing to worry about. . .he's not even guarding the-"

"I know. . ."

"And this summer, Voldemort even tried to . . ."

"I know." Mrs. Weasley sounded more confident. "I suppose this is nothing compared to guarding the. . ."

"Yes, it's nothing," replied Lupin.

"I'm sure Dad's aware of the risks." Bill had joined his mother in the kitchen.

"I suppose you're right, Bill," Mrs. Weasley conceded, sighing. There was a pause, and then: "But if you get involved in this. . ."

"I won't," laughed Bill.

"But Harry. . ." Mrs. Weasley's voice trailed off, and the children listening all turned to look at the mentioned wizard.

"He's already involved, in both plans," Lupin responded slowly. "Ours. . .and Voldemort's. . ."

The silence following this statement was startlingly heavy, on the stairwell especially with sudden horror. At the mention of his name Harry had felt a shiver creep up his spine, and upon hearing the hopeless tone in Lupin's voice he felt a sudden rush of adrenalin, sparked by a fear that made Harry's pulse quicken. What were they talking about? A sharp clinging noise of pans and dishes broke the silence; obviously Mrs. Weasley had turned away from the conversation to continue her washing. It was as though she had given up and accepted that she could do nothing. And if Mrs. Weasley was giving up on his fate, Harry realized, then he must truly be tangled in these plans, both his own and his enemy's.

---

Narcissa Malfoy was not one to walk around alone. Her usual day-to-day life was filled with siding with her husband against those she deemed of less importance, and quietly obsessing over her only son. While Mrs. Weasley was one to loudly and obviously dote over her children, to cry in happiness and yell when angry, one to cook extravagant meals in celebration of birthdays and other trivial matters, and one to ferociously protect her children from anything she could, Mrs. Malfoy was perhaps the opposite. Although both women loved their respective children, it could be said that others may not believe that to be true. While Molly Weasley could hug her children goodbye at Platform 9 3/4, Narcissa Malfoy found it not even an option, not that she often wished she could.

Narcissa knew what her husband expected of her. She had given him a son, and together the three of them had been the first true new generation of Purebloods in the wizarding community – forget the blood-traitor Weasleys, their line no longer mattered. Her sister was still in Azkaban – would the Lestrange line really end with Rudolphus? Pondering this, she felt a sharp prick in her right calf. Looking down, her reverie shattered, she remember that she was being fitted for a dress still and stopped moving to avoid the quickly moving needle. How long has she been standing there? Now, the green silk was pinned to her form and the seamstress was quickly working, the enchanted needle sewing quickly as though part of a sewing machine. It was no longer just a square of flowing material; it was quickly becoming a beautiful garment, the deep green bringing on the wearer's rich blonde hair, the shape accentuating her form, making her look very much the princess of Slytherin that she was.

As much as the dress was silk and beauty and coldness, as was the woman wearing it; her face, while perfect, was set in a look of contempt; her full pink lips were set in a frown; her flawless skin seemed unaccustomed to dimpling in a smile. As much as her son hated the emptiness in his gray eyes, Narcissa hated the way she still looked the way she had at nineteen. It was too long ago, too many years had gone by for her to still look that way, still feel that invincible, still feel that powerful and unstoppable. She wasn't a teenager anymore, she was mother. And yet, she didn't look like she loved her child, she looked like she was more likely to look the other way than comfort him. Where was the love she felt in her expression?

It was gone. She knew that. Lucius wouldn't want that kindness, wouldn't want to see that lovingness. It was weakness; she knew that. Why did it matter now? How many years had she lived knowing that she was the best? Her mother and father had loved her, known her perfection of beauty, Purebloodedness. Her grades in school didn't matter, nothing did, not when she had already predestined herself to this life. It was Lucius, he had given her this life. And she loved him. Was that truly weakness?

Standing there, being fitted for that dress, Narcissa could too-vividly recall those days at Hogwarts. She had felt so giddy those years, intoxicated by her own beauty and strength and power in the wizarding community, power to look down on half-bloods and scorn muggle-borns and speak of the dark affairs her current boyfriend was involved in. Even after the engagement, she had still truly been a child. Eighteen! How ridiculously young to get engaged. She knew that now, but back then, it had been just something that made her feel older. How foolish the women of the Pureblooded wizarding society must have she was. She recalled the bicentennial celebration of the Pureblooded Society, two months after her engagment. How childish she had been, waving around the glinting diamond ring, doting on her husband with the coldness she had loved. Now it was the coldness she detested. Dinner was silent. The house was silent. Where was the laughter of children? Draco stayed in his room, silent, lounging for hours on end. What did children do in their spare time? Narcissa felt as though life had disappointed her. Her life had been so full of expectations, and she had never had her expectations not been fulfilled. And now she had. Had it been her fault? Whom could she blame? Her life had just, slowly and with the merciless inexorability of oncoming winter, become cold.


	3. Chapter 3

At around two o'clock in the afternoon, Draco returned to the kitchen. The surrounding stone and wall of windows made the room bright and dark at the same time. Despite the beauty of the massive wizarding stove and pots and pans that hung from the ceiling, the room seemed empty and unused; it was eerily clean, and without visible food. The only thing out was a piece of parchment on the heavy, dark wooden table. Draco lifted it and quickly re-read it. It was from his mother, reminding him to join her at the tailors' for his fitting. After checking that he had the time right, he dawdled for as long as he could. Once in the main hallway, which was adorned, as was the rest of the house, with trinkets and antiques that gave the impression of a medieval castle, Draco walked towards the fireplace. After another moment's lingering, he reached for the ornate vial hanging by the side of the fireplace, and poured a handful of Floo Powder into his hand. After throwing into the fire, stepping into the magically green flames, and shouting his destination, Draco was gone from his house. The foyer was empty, and after a few moments, the green flames flickered and died, leaving the house empty and cold.

---

"Level Two," a cool female voice announced, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement. . ." Arthur Weasley exited the elevator before he could hear the voice finish her statement. He tried to act normally as he walked by the cubicles. He was so wrapped up in acting as though nothing was happening that he didn't realize something was happening until he walked into it.

Philip Reeds was standing in his office.

"Oh, good morn–"

"Weasley." The well-dressed wizard cut off Arthur before he had a chance to begin his nervous babbling. He seated himself at the desk, and all the papers and plugs and assorted muggle/wizarding items were discarded in a trash can; the desk was empty, but for a clipboard and a few new quills. Philip folded his arms across the empty desk. "For the next hour I shall be needing your office. Your work may be completed in the cubicle next to Harpner."

"You'll need my office?" asked Arthur, his eyes darting from his muggle treasures discarded in the waste basket to the impeccably clean man glaring at him from his own desk.

"I think I was rather clear, Weasley. Now, you should be working now, and I have to meet–"

"Philip." A voice came from right behind Arthur; he turned to see Lucius Malfoy standing, framed in his office's doorway, staring around him to the man seated at his desk.

"Work, Weasley," Philip reminded him, and as he turned to go, Philip stood and followed him to close the door. Arthur noticed the dull _click_ as the lock was turned. Nobody in the office noticed that Arthur bent down and placed something on the floor; as he walked to his temporary cubicle, nobody noticed that long piece of flesh-colored string that followed him and trailed from his hand.

Once in his cubicle, Arthur sat down and began to listen to the Extendible Ear. He wouldn't tell Molly, but he found that Fred and George's creations, from Fever Fudge to their firecrackers, made him immensely proud.

---

The tailors' that Draco Malfoy met his mother at wasn't in Diagon Alley; it was far from town, in a small, muggle town. He appeared in a fireplace in a museum. Once the fire died and he brushed the soot from his coat, he stepped out of the fireplace and looked around. The museum had actually once been a house; now, the house was filled with period furniture, and, Monday through Thursdays, with guides in hoop skirts and costumes who showed the tourists and groups of schoolchildren around the house also. The reason that Melinda Crooke's House still stood with all her furniture and possessions exactly in the order since her death was a strange one. As any of the muggle guides would be more than happy to tell you, Melinda had not died a natural death; at the age of 32, she had been burned at the stake as a witch.

Ironically enough, the muggles were partially correct; she had been a witch, and following her staged "death" (she had, of course, performed and simple Flame-Freezing Charm, and then fled the town to seek a new home), she had donated her house to the Ministry. Now, it was used as a travel post, where wizards and witches could use the Floo Network, or Apparate in out of the view of muggles.

If there was one thing Draco especially enjoyed about going to Burnley & Blake Tailors, it was stopping in Melinda's house. It was strewn with her trinkets and sundries; in her bedroom, the room that Draco usually found himself wandering, he found interest in flipping through her yellowed diary and pawing through her jewelry box at the amulets and rings that she owned. This day, however, Draco was not much in the mood to contemplate what it had been like for Melinda spending her life chased by witch hunters.

The muggle neighbors that saw the blonde teenager slowly open and carefully close the front door of the Crooke House did not take it as odd; they were used to strange people coming and going from that house, people who they assumed were antique salespeople and interested buyers. Perhaps the young man was simply doing a class project during his summer break. Those who saw him striding down the stone walkway and carelessly opening the wrought-iron fence did not bother to wonder why it was that yet another stranger had entered their town.

---

"Welcome back to the Ministry," Lucius told his friend, not realizing that Philip wasn't the only one who heard his greeting.

"I'm not back yet, Lucius, not officially, anyway."

"Trouble back in France?"

"A few loose ends." Philip's tone was casual, but Arthur got the feeling that his loose ends were not at all as innocent as they seemed. "I'll be returning there in a few days."

"And when can we expect you to return here?"

"A month, perhaps. I hope to be able to attend that event you mentioned in your letter. It sounds intriguing."

"I'm sure others would agree that your attendance would improve the atmosphere."

"Really? Like whom?"

"My son, for one."

"Yes, Draco, isn't it?"

"He met your daughter last year." Lucius's tone, while still sounding bored, had an edge to it.

"Ah, yes, Marie may have mentioned him. Although, she may not have. She didn't much enjoy her trip to Hogwarts. She's hoping not to have to come to school here."

"So Cynthia will be remaining in France with her?"

"The details have yet to be discussed," Philip replied. "I have already spoken to Dumbledore, and he is aware that a new student will be coming around the holiday time. All that remains is to convince Marie that she will enjoy coming here."

"Hogwarts was a wonderful place, at least during my years there."

"It wasn't the place, Lucius," Philip replied. "It was the students."

"Well, Philip, I can guarantee that there are some students there that are nice. Draco has found a few friends there." Arthur almost snorted at Lucius's comment and the tone of voice as he said the word _friends_.

"I'm sure your son will introduce her."

"Undoubtedly. So, we'll see your family in a few months?"

"Yes, that is the plan."

"Good. Narcissa was hoping to see Cynthia."

"Of course. I'll send an owl when I'm back in town."

Arthur heard a chair scraping across the floor as Philip stood. He heard the click as the wizard unlocked the door, and then the creak of the door opening. And then, a squelching noise. Arthur had forgotten the ear.

"Goodness, what _is_ that?" asked Lucius, his voice disgusted as he stared at the ear he had just stepped on. Glancing worriedly over his cubicle, Arthur could see the two of them, standing at his office, both staring downwards at where, he assumed, they both could see what appeared to be a trampled ear.

"Probably just another muggle trinket," Philip replied, his voice derisive. Arthur let go of his end of the ear just in time; Philip picked up the ear, and, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger like a piece of disgusting trash, the threw it in the garbage.

---

Draco didn't look back as the black gate swung shut behind him, creaking on its rusty hinges. He didn't look down as he strode through puddles and over uneven cobblestones. He didn't look at the tall houses that seemed to lean forwards onto the street. He stared directly ahead at one small, tan house that stood on its own small lot. When he arrived there, he pushed open the wooden gate, walked underneath the archway and pushed aside the morning glories that hung down from the latticework of the arch. Once at the door, he didn't even have to knock.

A woman, a maid from her black-and-white uniform, opened the door and admitted him. Inside, it was clear that this wasn't a home; the staircase was sealed off with a velvet divider, and what may have been a livingroom for a previous owner was filled with velvet couches but devoid of a person touch; instead of family pictures and items, impersonal portraits hung on the walls. A man in a coat and tall stovepipe hat was shuffling a deck of cards; three women were busily embroidering in a frame by the hallway. A room that may have served as a kitchen was now a wall of mirrors and a few dressing rooms. The windows were covered with deep purple curtains, and light came from a fireplace and candles that festooned the large chandeliers.

Draco walked to the room of mirrors, glancing nervously upwards at the shadowed corners of the rooms and up the dusty staircases.

"Ah, Draco." His mother saw him coming in the mirror; he jumped at his name, and moved his eyes away from the dark hallway stretching to his right and glanced at his mother. She beckoned him with a finger, and he came to stand at her right.

For some reason, she would not look at him directly; she locked eyes with him in the mirror, and he glanced at her stern reflection.

"You're late," she replied crisply.

"Sorry, Mother," Draco replied, trying his hardest to sound sincere. He wasn't.

"Change in there." Narcissa indicated a partitioned off area to her left. Draco obliged.

"What have you been doing all day that could have made you late?" she asked as her son changed into black pants and a white button-down shirt. It did not escape his notice that the buttons were black opals.

"Nothing, Mother," he replied. For once he had told her nothing more than she asked; if anything, he told her too little.

Once he was all dressed, he pulled back the dressing room curtain that served as a door and stepped up onto a platform in front of the mirror next to his mother. She glanced at him in the mirror.

"Your collar is crooked," she noted, and when he glanced at her, she had already averted her gaze back to her own reflection. As he was fixing his collar, the seamstress walked in. The shirt and pants, although fitted to him, needed a few adjustments. After that, the black coat lined with silk needed to be fitted to that it was perfect. As he tried his hardest not to fidget as he got the alterations, his mother stood statue-still as they stitched emeralds into her dress.

"Mother, is this necessary?" he asked plaintively after the first hour passed.

"This event is going to be a high-society event. Everyone looks their best, and we have no reason not to look better than them." Narcissa's response sounded pretentious, even to her ears. For a moment, she reflected on her recent thoughts and regretted sounding so stiff and uncaring. Draco was silent for a moment.

"Must I go?" he asked finally, staring resolutely ahead. His mother turned her head to actually glance directly at him, startled by his annoyed tone. He turned to look at her, his expression blank. For a moment Narcissa was startled; his expression scared her, as though her son had learned to be as commanding as his father.

"Yes," she replied finally, straightening her back and standing as tall as she could. She heard her son sigh angrily, but ignored him. For the rest of the time, the two of them stood in silence, trying to forget what they had said, feeling guilty about their responses, and wondering why the other hadn't understood.


	4. Chapter 4

---

The last day of summer was no different to Draco than the other days; it was spent in his house, alone, the only change being that, upon entering his room before dinner, he found that all his Hogwarts things were packed neatly in an open trunk lying at the foot of his bed. When he walked over to his desk to add a few items (a book on curses and a few of his favorite quills), he saw that his mother was stepping out of his adjoining bathroom.

She looked startled at his appearance, but quickly collected herself.

"I've packed all your school things," she told him, interlacing her fingers and standing up stiffly-straight. Draco didn't respond. He tossed the book on top of the perfectly-folded clothing that his mother had packed for him. The starched shirts and folded pants rumpled as he tossed his belongings on top.

His mother pretended not to notice, but watched silently as he began to open and close the remaining two drawers of his desk.

"I was talking to your father last night," Narcissa told her son, as she seated herself gracefully on the neatly-made bed without wrinkling the expensive quilt on top of it. Draco glanced up, but continued to burrow a handful of glass vials between what had been his neatly-folded school clothes.

"He said he spoke to Philip awhile ago," Draco's mother continued, smoothing the quilt on his bed as she spoke, as though she wasn't truly paying attention to him. "It seems as though Marie will be joining you sometime at Hogwarts."

Draco looked away, unaware of his sudden sullen expression. He hated the way his mother had phrased it. He hated the way his parents thought they could play matchmaker for him. But most of all, he hated the way that he couldn't truthfully not like her; he knew that he couldn't be cruel to her just to upset his parents.

"When?" he finally asked, and he could have sworn his mother almost smiled. However, her face was porcelain-smooth and her voice did not betray the slightest hint of a smile when she replied, "Your father says the plans haven't been exactly worked out; but, Philip mentioned that he wanted Marie to have as complete a school year as possible."

Sensing that his mother was done, Draco stood up and walked to the door.

"Draco," his mother called to him, "keep an eye out for her."

---

While the Black Mansion was filled with chaotic, last-minute packing and assorted red-haired people running around and skidding, sock-footed, on the shiny wooden floors, the Malfoy Manor was as silent as ever. About a half-an-hour before the Hogwarts Express was to leave Platform 9 3/4, Draco padded silently down the stairs, his face as blank and bored as ever, his trunk hovering behind him. When he reached the fireplace in his foyer, he lit the logs there once more, took a pinch of Floo Powder yet again, and disappeared into the green flames. A few moments later, his parents followed him down the grand staircase, and there was a popping noise as the two of them Apparated.

On Platform 9 3/4, the three of them met up. For a moment they stood on the platform, staring at the train as it stood, wreathed in smoke. The silence of the three of them was lost in the loudness of the platform, as children hurried towards the train, first years tearfully hugged their parents, and owls hooted in the din.

Draco could have sighed in frustration at his family's silence, but he kept it to himself. He shifted his trunk so that he was hold it more carefully, and began to walk towards the train. When he was a few paces away, he turned, and in response to his glance, his father nodded, as did his mother, both their faces without the hint of a smile.

As he stepped onto the train, he glanced back to see them standing near each other, the only two unmoving figures in the bustling station. Although he wasn't sure, he thought he heard his mother call, "Watch out for her, Draco!"

---

While other students spent the train ride discussing their summers and entertaining each other with stories, Draco spent his gloating silently. While his home was a place where his parents controlled him and dictated every moment, school was a place where Draco could be in control. True, teachers did try and tell him what to do, and there were rules that he had to pretend to obey, but the other fifth-year Slytherins, namely Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, listened to not the Headmaster or school rules; to them, Draco was the leader, and he made the rules.

As the train rushed past muggle homes and sweeping landscapes, Draco reclined in his compartment, smirking, soaking up each moment of remembering that in this situation, he was the one with the power.

"Had a nice summer, Draco?" simpered Pansy Parkinson, finally glancing at him with idolizing eyes and not staring at her perfectly-manicured red nails.

"Yeah, Parkinson," he replied lazily, a half-smile making his gray eyes sparkle with a wicked twinkle. Pansy grinned when he addressed her. She didn't realize that he wasn't smirking because she had spoken to him; he was glad because he had finally escaped it all – his parents, their rules, and for the moment he had even forgotten the dreaded event his parents were dragging him to.

---

They were about half-way to Hogwarts when Harry saw a familiar face outside his compartment. He slid back the glass door and suck his head out, staring, confused, at the bright pink hair and the disheveled form walking down the corridor.

"Tonks?" he asked as they passed. "Professor?"

"Potter," replied Mad-Eye gruffly as a greeting.

"What are you two doing here?" asked Harry.

"This was your idea," Tonks reminded him, and she winked. "Just pretend you don't know anything that's going on."

The two of them looked ready to go, but Moody stopped Tonks from walking as though he had just remembered something.

"Potter, do you still have that map that Lupin mentioned?"

"Yeah," replied Harry.

"Could we perhaps borrow it?" growled Moody, his blue eye swiveling to look through the compartment door, perhaps trying to locate the map.

"Alright. . ." Harry replied. He ducked into the compartment, ignoring Neville's questioning glance, pulled down his trunk, opened it, dug through it for a moment, and finally pulled out the map. Upon returning to the door, he handed the folded, apparently-blank parchment to Moody, who thanked him. Without another word, the two of them continued down the corridor, then found an empty compartment. Harry heard the door close. Moody preformed a difficult charm, and suddenly it appeared, through the glass, that the compartment was empty. Harry sighed, shook his head, and returned to his compartment.

"What was that?" asked Neville, glancing up from his _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ plant.

"Nothing," replied Harry, sliding the door to the compartment closed and sitting down. "I just thought I saw someone I knew." Neville nodded and returned to staring at his plant. Luna was silent, apparently absorbed in her magazine.

Harry sighed as he stared out the window, wishing that he could tell Ron and Hermione just how worried he was that his plan would go wrong at the expense of his friends. But they weren't there; the two of them had gone to the prefect's carriage, so he was left, sitting with Neville and Luna, dwelling on the possibility that his plan could go wrong.

---

When the train finally stopped and the doors opened, two boys, from opposite ends of the train, wearing opposite school colors, both looked upon the far-off castle gratefully. To both Harry and Draco, school promised something their homes could not; for Draco, a place where he made his own decisions, where there was the promise of excitement and adventure; to Harry, Hogwarts was a place where he belonged, where his true family lived. The two both entered separate carriages, and sat silently among their friends, savoring separate feelings of belonging and freedom.

---

The Sorting and the following feast passed without event, and afterwards the students went to their dormitories, thinking thankfully of the soft beds and thick blankets that awaited them.

Draco, however, wasn't tired. Although the clock of Hogwarts was chiming eleven o'clock, and most students, exhausted from the long trip, were heading to their beds, Draco finished unpacking, and then wandered to the Slytherin Common Room. Pansy and a few of her friends were lounging on the black leather couches in front of the emerald flames of the enchanted fire. She smiled at him, and looked prepared to leap up from her seat, mid-conversation, but Draco simply nodded in response and turned and left the Common Room.

As he was walking towards the exit, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle. They didn't notice him, and he preferred it that way.

He didn't normally walk through Hogwarts alone; he preferred to swagger around with the assurance of his safety from his two minion-like friends. But there was something calming about quiet Hogwarts. When he left his Common Room and stepped into the cold of the dungeons, he paused to listen to the silence. Smirking slightly at the power he felt as the ringleader of the Slytherins, he confidently began to wander through the school, feeling so indestructible that even the threat of finding Filch and detention or any other punishment seemed ridiculous and improbable.

Walking through Hogwarts was something so different and alike to walking through the Crooke House; both were littered with magical trinkets and both had an age about them, but it was Hogwarts that had a catching feeling of possibility, of endless adventures to be had and endless chances.

Unlike his house, Hogwarts was a place where Draco didn't feel like he was constantly insulting or embarrassing his father or his name. Hogwarts was a place of freedom to him.

As he was walking through the corridor, however, he suddenly heard footsteps. And just as quickly as Hogwarts had made him feel invincible and anticipatory, the sudden possibility of conflict abruptly returned him to reality.

As much as he hated to admit it, Draco was frightened; in the darkness of the hallway, the footsteps he heard could be those of Filch, waiting to catch him and put him in detention. He knew the caretaker, knew that he couldn't use his name or his influence to escape detention. Or perhaps it was another teacher, a muggle-loving one like McGonagall who wouldn't hesitate to take points away from Slytherin and make him feel, once again, a disappointment.

For a moment, Draco cowered in the shadows, disgusted at his own fear that fueled the rapid beating of his heart and made his breath sound hurried and loud in the silence. He stood, too frightened to move, fearful of being caught by his imaginary pursuer. However, as he listened apprehensibly, he suddenly heard a quiet, "Oh!" and then a loud crashing noise.

Confused, he strode down the corridor, his heart still beating quickly from his fear, and slowly opened the door at the end of the hallway. Looking out, he saw that the stairs were now covered with heaps of newly-washed girl's clothing, that was strewn across the stairs as though someone had just dropped their suitcase. As he glanced cautiously up the stairs to see who had been clumsy enough to drop their entire suitcase, he found himself staring at a girl whose presence surprised him and intrigued him.

"Marie?" he called, wondering if it was truly her.


End file.
